Of the Night
by loveofwrittenword
Summary: After the adrenaline wears off and the heat of battle lessens, reality starts to set in. The cover of night can mask so many things and unknowingly heal unsought after pain. One only as to let it take over. A soft M rating/One-Shot(s). •Hermione/Fred•
1. Of the Night

Disclaimer: Everything recognizable belongs to J.K. Rowling (and or Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream) and associates. No Copy Right Infringement is meant.

**Of the Night**

"_I know the night is not the same as the day: that all things are different, that the things of the night cannot be explained in the day, because they do not then exist, and the night can be a dreadful time for lonely people once their loneliness has started.__" - __Ernest Hemingway_

.~~. .~~.

Hermione's POV – 28 July 1997 – Night after the mission of retrieving Harry from the Dursley's – Early morning hours

My hands quiver as I bring the last of my firewhisky to my lips. A little of the burning liquid sloshes over the rim but I pay no mind to it. Not one to really indulge in such pastimes, the stiff drink makes me a little wobbly. Unfortunately it has nothing to do with the horrid events of the last several hours.

Indolently, I set the glass on the wooden table, centered in the cramped kitchen, trying to make as little noise as possible.

The house is eerily silent, especially considering the trauma of the night and the deeply felt loss of Mad-Eye. The only thing to pierce my ears is the soft hooting of a nearby owl, the slight breeze of summer and the settling of the oddly-shaped house known as the Burrow.

Weak light filters into the partially curtained window as I study the scarred wooden table.

I can't help but wonder how many dinners Mrs. Weasley has served here, how many ailments she has cured, how many family councils she has sat through and how many antagonizing nights she has worried for the welfare of her large family.

Stinging tears comes unbidden to my eyes as I try valiantly to will them away. I dislike crying greatly, and I know for certain I am not a pretty crier. My cheeks become reddened, my nose runny, and my hair seems to become even bushier – for some odd reason.

_Unfortunately it's always had a life of its own_, I think off-handedly. _Some things are inextricable_.

My fingers pass roughly under my eyes as I swipe at the now fallen tears. Nothing seems to be happening my way tonight. However, the tears are the least of my problems.

After Kingsley and I escaping five Death Eaters, not to mention a flying Voldemort (sans broom), tears are actually a welcomed problem. They are so inconsequential in the grand scheme of things, though.

The clincher of our flight, the little detail Kingsley omitted from Harry and Remus had been my part of our battle. It hadn't been _him_ responsible for the possible death of our pursuers', but the magic from my wand: A stunner straight to the chest.

But being in the heat of the battle, to knowing Harry and Ron were truly safe, to adrenaline coursing heavily in my veins, to George being cursed with Dark magic and to finding out about our former Defense professor, I had been thoroughly distracted. My reaction to an action had been shelved.

But now as the weak moon light filters in and my trembling fingers play with the empty glass, I can't help but think on it. I know it to be only the tip of the iceberg, and the arduous part of the war only truly beginning, but it doesn't preclude me from feeling sorrow and remorse.

I try to comfort myself with the belief of it being a war and people are bound to be killed (just look to Mad-Eye). Death Eater's philosophy is to kill first and ask questions later, especially those they think beneath them. But it brings little comfort to my overwrought body.

The sad part is: this war is going to take so much from each of us. And I shudder to think who we'll be at the conclusion. _Who will even be left standing_?

With a little more force than necessary, I push the empty glass away from me and thankfully sigh as it barely avoids toppling over the edge of the table. _Thank goodness for small miracles, I guess_.

"Drinking on your lonesome, Granger? And firewhisky no less. Oh, not very fitting for Prefect behavior. What kind of example are you setting for wee little firsties?"

I groan resignedly as one half of _Weasleys_**' **_Wizard Wheezes invades my solitude. ____More like my pity-party__. I push my wild hair from my eyes and look up. _

_Just when I think I have a sharp, witty retort to throw back, more tears prickles my eyes. It shouldn't be so easy, being able to tell the twins apart. It feels like something is actually stolen from them: some mysterious phenom. _

"Please, Fred, this isn't the time." A bark-like laugh escapes from his lips before he can even think stop it. The sound reminds me so eerily Sirius, only reminding me of more loss suffered.

"Sorry, Hermione," the red-haired jokester replies through his ending chuckles; yet I can detect the sincerity in his apology. "But you know me by now, love. What else would you expect from your resident Weasley twin? Well, besides blinding handsomeness and wit beyond belief, of course?"

A rogue giggle escapes my lips, only feeding the red-headed menace before me.

"Can't you be serious for once, Fred?" I ask mock-sternly, trying on my best McGonagall impersonation. I fail spectacularly, which I happily blame on the lateness of the hour and the firewhisky, of course.

His mischievous head tilts to the side as his full lips quirk up. _What now_, I can't help but think.

"I tried being serious once, love, but the real one threatened to hex my bits off and feed them to Moony on the next full moon if I didn't stop." Fred's wink is all kinds of smoldering. I wondered if he even knows the easy affect he can seamlessly create.

I shake my head, scolding myself for such inane thoughts. _That is the firewhisky talking_. I push aside my silly, girlish thoughts and replay what my late-night companion had said. What in Merlin's crusty knickers had he been referring to? And instantly the lights click.

"Fred," I whine, "That was truly uninspired. Even Percy could have come up with that. Honestly!" I snort.

I try and hide my inelegant giggle as Fred's jaw drops open. He looks entirely too cute; like a little spooked puppy.

"Wow, Granger, talk about hexing a man's bits off. To call me out on my lame joke, understandable; but to compare my skills to Percy, it's all but unforgiveable. Blasphemous, I say!"

I laugh heartedly, thanking whatever powers that be for the little levity reprieve. The heaviness breaks up a little in my chest, and I find it easier to breathe. But of course I should have expected that from either Fred or George.

Silkily I take a page from the prankster's book and throw a saucy wink back at him.

His eyebrows all but disappear in his long, ginger locks. Slowly a smirk appears on his handsome face. Yes, unfortunately, I always thought the twins handsome. A girl would have to be blind not to see their physical appeal (_and yes . . . their mental appeal, too_, my traitorous libido reminds me. _Goodness, are they near genius with all they have accomplished_) or have the thickness of Trelawney's glasses. But I digress.

"Why, Granger, I do declare you sloshed on firewhisky is quite alluring. The drink seems to take the schoolmarm straight out of you."

Again, I snort. Perhaps there is a little truth to his words.

Snobbishly, I throw my chin up. To think, I sloshed. However, I can't help the flush creeping over my cheeks. This is all ever so embarrassing.

"I've never been sloshed a day in my life," I extol with as much dignity as possible. "And for you to insinuate otherwise is defamation to my character." _Take that, Fred Weasley_, I think impishly.

"Alas, I spoke too soon." My chin retreats as I bite my lip to keep from giggling. The effect Fred has on females should be criminal. I may fancy Ron, but he could stand to learn one (more like a hundred) lesson from his brother.

I shake the fluff from my head and narrow my eyes playfully at the scoundrel. "'ear, 'ear," I can't help but retort. If George can pull such a lame joke, than who am I to refute his comedic genius?

A lost look haunts Fred's face before it disappears. I quickly question my observation skills, wondering if I truly saw such a misplaced look on his visage, but I know it isn't made up.

"Oh goodness, Fred, I'm terribly sorry," I'm quick to apologize. I never want to put that look on to his face again, nor see it there. Stupid me, had to cross some blatant line.

Without realizing, my quiet companion slides over to my side of the table and comfortingly slips his left arm over my shoulders. Angrily I think it should be the other way. Fred had almost lost his other half tonight, and here he is consoling me. _How is the mood able to shift so dramatically_?

Sharp, jagged sobs erupt in my chest. Not only do I ruin everything, but I may have killed a person tonight.

"Shhh, Hermione. Come now, love, . . . what is all this?" I try to will the tears away and only succeed in wiping boogies on poor Fred's shirt. My humiliation is set in stone tonight. Even the boy-Arthur wouldn't be able to pull it out of stone.

"I go too far. It is a terrible fault of mine. And I'm sorry, Fred. I shouldn't have senselessly reminded you of George's accident tonight. And I claim Ron has the emotional range of a teaspoon."

Thoughtful rumbles of laughter tickle my cheek where it lays on Fred's chest. His heart and lungs sound healthy and strong. Unconsciously I burrow (no pun intended) deeper into his chest, allowing his warmth, his mirth to fill me. It is terribly selfish, but I cannot stop myself.

"Firstly, there is no need for an apology, we were joking about. No harm done; and you didn't go too far. I'm actually impressed with your dry humor." I weakly slap Fred's chest as I giggle between my little hiccupping sobs. "Secondly, one couldn't even successfully drown in the deepest depths of my baby brother's emotional range. Ickle Ronnikins is rather dense in that regard."

"Fred," I try and admonish, but he is successfully pulling me from my despair. "That is unfair."

"Perhaps," he concedes, or so I think. "But he is my brother, and I have to call truth where I see it, Granger. Regardless of familial obligation. It doesn't stop me from calling Percy a big-headed git, now does it?"

For a time I am lost in my mirth, Fred's warmth and the sadness of the night. This man's gift far outstrips his penchant for mischief (which is saying A Lot).

"So why are you really up so late, Hermione? Drinking, no less?" Fred finally asks me when the silence between us become deafening. Not that it is uncomfortable.

I want to keep the answers hidden deeply within me. Perhaps if I ignore the awfulness of this senseless war, it will cease to exist. But I've always been a pragmatist (to my eternal consternation).

"I had one more glass – sans the one I had earlier," I answer, trying to get away with his easier question. "I'd hardly call that drinking."

"And as to the other inquiry?" I sigh wearily, not wanting to answer.

"I'm making sure Harry doesn't disappear without me," I answer bluntly. There is no other way to say it. "I've known him for almost seven years, and if there is anything I have learned it is my best friend is beyond headstrong. Once he has an idea, one cannot put him off it."

"I've had a run-in myself with this most favorable trait," Fred jests. I sorely want to ask what happened, but hold my tongue. If he wanted me to know, he would elaborate. My foot has already been well acquainted with my mouth this night.

"Well, suffice it to say, I cannot let him run off alone. It isn't vanity or pride when I say he needs me. But I also need him, too, Fred," I bravely admit.

My life and my concern have been centered about Harry for so long I sadly don't know any other way to be. I know once the war is over, and he finally defeats Voldemort (for I know he will), I'll have to learn a new way of being, if I survive that is. Some may think Harry my project or me mothering him, but they miss the lining in our relationship: I love him beyond words, beyond measure.

"You are thoroughly Hufflepuff, aren't you, Granger?" Again my laughter is inescapable. His gift to comfort is unfathomable.

Fred and George may have thought I never liked them (my threatening them with their mother), or their products, but they had been terribly wrong. I may not have appreciated them testing unknown products on first year students, or the ultimate aim of their products (helping students skive off class), but I couldn't deny how incredibly smart and talented they were – and are.

And unbeknownst to Fred (and every other Weasley for that matter) I was attracted to his amazing talent, unlimited creativity, easy camaraderie with his peers _and yes_, his handsomeness. To name a few.

"Make fun all you please, but I know you secretly envy my seemingly bleeding heart. But alas, I bleed true Gryffindor, you prat," I banter.

I pull away from his chest, wanting to see his silly face. Though our queer conversation has been that of a muggle rollercoaster tonight, I know he is now smiling. He is truly the embodiment of joviality.

A surprised breath catches in my throat. To think that I could ever figure this man out would be laughable. I think that is part of the twins' appeal. They may seem flamboyant and over-the-top in their pranks and schemes, but there is a deep mystery to them. So much of their success as pranksters had boiled down to stealth, not getting caught and the element of surprise.

And now as I intently, _shyly_ study Fred, I can see the mystery lurking behind his hazel depths. Never will I wholly understand him. And there is such a fun excitement to that notion.

"Fred?" I whisper for no apparent reason. Only that my voice has deserted me. I feel out of my element and the intense look on his handsome visage is unreadable.

"Hermione?" he counters just as quietly, as tenderly.

"I don't understand."

The moment seems to sneak up on us. Our breathing is heavy and the air is too thick. My cheeks embarrassingly flush and my teeth begin to nibble on my lips. Fred is barely a foot from me, but it feels as if his heady breath is caressing every inch of my face.

I drop my chin, trying to hide my inexperienced reaction to him. This is all mad.

Quick little breaths leave my surprised parted lips as gentle fingers stroke the right side of my cheek. I can't understand what's happening, my brain seems complete mush. The moonlight and brilliant stars shining in through the window aren't helping. Not to mention the adrenaline and arrant emotions of earlier this evening.

Shivers run naughtily over my skin and flutter in my belly. With all my Gryffindor courage (which isn't much at this point) I look up through my lashes, still a little frightened by this bewildering moment.

His eyes are impossibly dark and his adorably freckled-face pale. His long, auburn hair falls rakishly into his eyes, but he makes no move to push it back. His tapered fingers are still reached towards me, filling the small space between us. According to my flipping stomach and squirmy thighs, he cuts an impressively stirring image.

"Do you feel it, Granger?" Fred finally asks, breaking the profuse silence. "This thing?" His hand gestures between our still figures, the only thing breaking the stillness is my chest rising and falling rapidly.

As I go to answer him, I can't find my voice. My mouth is dry and my tongue feels like it's pasted to the roof of my mouth. All I can do is nod stupidly.

_Merlin above, can I feel it. This incomprehensible, enigmatic thing between us_. I wonder if there is something in the firewhisky; perhaps it's gone bad. Or maybe the rascally twin is having me on with one of his jokes. But his solemn face speaks otherwise.

My teeth start to bite on my bottom lip again; I'm unsure what else to do.

The decision is taken from me, thankfully (scarily is more like it). I never been under the romantic notion that time stops and the earth ceases from spinning simply because someone of the opposite sex is about to kiss me. But in this moment and in this thick stillness, I can come closer to the understanding. My shaky thighs sure agree.

I can all but count each freckle, each laugh line surrounding Fred's eyes as he comes closer. Less than an inch separates us as he finally stops.

My mind wants to demand why the sudden pause, but my heart overrides the decision. It is beating too loudly for me to even hear the ramblings of my mind.

Little breathy sighs leave my mouth and I can't help but wonder if it is actually me making those noises. My cheeks flush even more at the embarrassing reaction to this mysterious prankster.

I break away from the inanity of my mind and focus on the moment. The answer to my earlier inquiry is written clearly in those deep hazel eyes: do you wish me to continue?

_Do I_? I can't help but ask myself.

_Oh, yes. More than I can even realize_, something lazily answers for me.

Without pause or thinking of the consequences for once, I lean forward and take the initiative. I'm not a Gryffindor in name only.

Soft, pliable lips immediately enchant me. I can't think, only feel. This is such a departure from my rational self, and once more the other Hermione (the one whom likes wilder things) is set loose.

This feral Hermione feels no remorse, no fear as she leans even more into the kiss and releases inhibitions.

Her companion responds in kind and starts to respond. She can still feel his surprised gasp of breath on her swollen lips when she initiated the kiss. Excited tremors run the length of her spine, only electrifying her further.

As if they have been doing this their entire lives, their lips start to move in sync, like some perfectly choreographed dance. Neither is shy, neither takes charge nor can neither recall how it started; only that it's happening.

Brave, languorous hands stretch forth and explore her righteous curls. She can swear the curls have doubled in size, responding to the magic of this impetuous kiss.

Never realizing, she leans further into him as his fingers tenderly caress each wild strand.

Chest meets chest as each breath is felt both on their exploring tongues and on their raising lungs. The sensation of feeling him so close, so intimate only heightens her recklessness.

Her tongue becomes bolder, exploring, as it rolls languidly over every crevice it can reach. Her companion moans intensely as he craves more of her intricate and thrown-out inhibition attentions.

"Yes, love. More," he silkily demands. Each word vibrates deliciously on her lips and protruding tongue.

Her fingers reach out and wraps instinctively around his neck. Her fingers dig into the soft flesh, kneading relaxed muscles exquisitely.

His longish hair becomes caught between fingers, tugging slightly. It gives him no pain, only more of an intense pleasure.

Though the pace is nice and wonderfully erotic, she starts to crave a little more. His smoothing her hair, licking her lips, blowing into her mouth, biting into the mind-blowing spots on her neck is making her frantic. The space between her thighs calls for more action.

As if he can sense the wildness within her craving more, her companion starts to take charge. It only thrills her more, knowing she is making him want her thusly.

The bench enthrallingly squeaks as his chest pushes into her, asking more than demanding her retreat. Happily she gives in and lowers herself onto the wooden bench.

Something in the back of her mind starts to niggle, asking if this is right, but it's quickly pushed away. _This Hermione_ doesn't really care for consequences; only action. The thrill of the action only adds to the exquisite anticipation.

A heady weight settles over her as he is finally lying on top. She can't help the whet mewls which leave her swollen, occupied lips.

Eager and experienced lips start to become more frantic as they trail over every piece of exposed flesh. A light summer tank top gives his lips ample of skin to sample, to kiss, to suck . . . to skillfully, _sinfully_ bite.

Enticingly warm fingers slip under the strap of the tank and ever-so-slowly pull down. The sensations working inside her, outside her, all over her are so strong. All she can do is respond in kind, wanting to be a willing, stimulating participant. Inhibitions may be lost, but her thirst to prove herself is still very much alive.

Wet, pillowly lips replace errand fingers as they wonderfully explore new flesh, hot skin, and the starting of a swell. His tongue licks at every inch, needing to take in each stimulating flavor. Her skin must have been made for feasting on.

Hands start to join in the melee as they travel from her now bare shoulders to the infinitesimal round of her stomach. Her tank is pulled up as wanton fingers take in the wonderful softness of her tummy.

Erotic moans happily meet his ears as he caresses so desirably her uncovered flesh. He only knows the captivate nature of her skin, her soft murmurs, her own exploring hands under his shirt and the furrowing of her hips.

Everything is above and beyond his unexpected expectations.

_This Hermione_ is no slouch in their discovery of each other. She is as lost in the sensations they are causing each other as he. She has no need or want to be found.

With wanton deliberation her fingers push up the fabric of his shirt, trying to match her in undress. She can't explain, but the need to feel his skin on her exposed skin is indelible. The need to feel his lips, the wetness from his mouth marking her is maddening. The need to push into his weight laying on her is essential. The madness swirls chaotically within her mind, her pulsating blood, thumping heart. Everything wants to feel, to reach some kind of completion that only between her thighs can relate.

It calls out to her so loudly. _Push his shirt up . . . feel his hot, sweaty skin as it moves so brilliantly over your own . . . wrap your legs around his slim waist . . . feel his hip bones dig so delectably into yours . . . push back, feel the hardness so magnificently between your thighs . . . tug hard on his hair; it works him beyond reason . . . rut into him frantically . . . breath heavily, your breasts feel beyond amazing smashed down by his hard chest . . . scratch his exposed skin . . . moan whetly as he sucks hard at your skin, touches your tits, pushes back into your rutting apex . . . he talks oh so dirtily into your ear- the things he says and promises (Mmm)._

_Don't stop . . . don't stop . . . don't ever bloody stop_.

Exhilaratingly, she pushes one last time as she finally reaches that ultimate stimulation. There is nothing else to do. Sensations of unreached magnitudes crash over her. As she goes to scream out, his lips seal over hers, capturing everything she offers him. Her abandon is beyond exquisite. Breathtakingly it sends him over as well.

Both are breathing so heavily, so enlivening.

"Hermione," she hears whispered tenderly in her ear. So much emotion is put into her name.

Something comes back as something feral is pushed back.

As if awaken from a numbing slumber, I start to feel things beyond orgasmic. My cheeks redden hotly as I think about the abandon I showed him, the wantonly behavior I displayed on his mother's kitchen wooden bench. My mortification starts to take over. The stickiness coating my knickers doesn't help, either.

My mind can't help but replay every _scarlet_ action I displayed. There is a reason I stick so close to the rules – besides my bookworm tendencies. I've always know this other side to me; this side which throws caution to the wind and enjoys the thrill of unfettered inhibitions.

Before I can work myself into a crying, shameful frenzy, Fred's level voice pulls me back, anchoring me to sanity.

"Don't go there, Hermione." He is still breathless. "What we did wasn't appalling. We found comfort in each other, love. There is nothing to ever feel sorry over."

I blink, trying to remove the stinging from my eyes. Never have I known Fred to read me so skillfully, without even having to look at me, to boot.

As I try to calm myself, Fred lessens some of his weight from me as he pulls back. Wandlessly, he sweeps his right hand over our flushed bodies and removes the cooling wetness from between my legs and from my cotton sleep bottoms.

As he rights our thoroughly rumpled clothes, he gives me a roguish wink, attached to a sweet wobbly smile; which only intensifies my pinking cheeks.

"There, a little better now." I can't help but give him a grateful smile in return. I hope he can read the thankfulness and appreciation I feel for him and the beyond thrilling experience he's given to me; despite my rather embarrassing licentiousness.

I can't even begin to fathom what we experienced here tonight, how it even began and how I could never regret it. I may feel guilt at my actions later on, but never can I regret it because we did find _comfort in each other_.

His body still lying on top of mine is so fulfilling.

We seemed to reach a peak together that was unsought. The intensity of the night has now rushed up to me. I feel it so profoundly inside me.

Perhaps it's the wild artifice of the night, or the magnitude of what we experienced together, or because of so much _she_ has given him tonight I can't help but give him this truth as well.

"I might have killed someone tonight," slips from my tongue, so suddenly. And though I feel some invisible burden fall from me, having shared my immense weight, I still feel the stinging prickle of guilty tears. _I might have killed someone_, I can't help but think_. I don't even know the outcome_.

And yes, while I was initially awake looking out for my headstrong best friend, I was also overcome with such heavy guilt. I now give it to Fred.

Even after the completion I felt with him was altering, I still lack the courage to look into his eyes. This truth is so much greater.

My shameful face stays hidden in his shoulder. As he tries to pull his weight from me, I stop him. My arms tighten around his neck, impeding him from moving. I can't bear to face him. I don't want him disgusted with me – for some unbeknownst reason.

"Shh, love," he sweetly consoles me. I wonder if he thinks me ever so guilty; at fault for possibly taking a man's life. Little shuddering hiccups leave my lips as I try and control my tears and breathing. I finally start to cry myself out, taking comfort in his warm skin, hot breath on my throat, skillful hands carding through my hair.

And like the sweetest balm to my soul, Fred's words wash over me; both surprising and comforting to me. "I know, Hermione," he slowly confesses. This time I can't help but to let go of his neck and take in his handsome visage. His fingers immediately start to swipe away my errant, hot tears.

"H-How," is all I can manage.

"I heard Kingsley trying to comfort you earlier. Right fine job he did of it too. Here you are, getting my beautifully unblemished skin wet." Slowly, but with a deep compassion settling into his eyes, he winks. This is yet again his attempt to try and comfort me, to take away some of my pain and make it his own. This is how he knows to reassure. And unreservedly I take it.

"If you're unblemished, H-Harry is as ferrety albino as M-Malfoy," I jest back. Deep rumbles are felt on my chest as Fred leans in and smothers his mirth into my neck; his hair tickles my skin. I can't help but feel a wonderful glow in making him laugh so heartily.

"You're beyond measure, Granger. Absolutely beyond." My already flushed skin reaches alarming rates. I wonder if he can feel the raging heat pouring from me. _Most likely, stupid_.

"T-Thanks," I can't help but shakily respond. To what I'm thanking him for, I can't really know – only that I feel it so terribly deeply within me. It beats exquisitely in my heart.

"Anytime, love." His eyes bore into mine, telling me so eloquently the things that aren't said, the things reverently left unspoken. My hands reach up and push back his sweaty locks. I can't help but love the feel of his hair between my fingers, the slight weight of him still lying on me and the intense look in his hazel orbs.

"Anytime, Granger!" he repeats once more, emphatically, _softly_.

A gentle smile touches at the corner of my lips as I pray he can read the same message he's given to me in my own eyes. The words will forever be stuck in my heart.

Tenderly, I pull him back down, wanting to feel the full weight of him astride me. And though the wooden bench is hard against my back, I don't care. It only reaffirms the completion I have startlingly and so very happily found in him tonight. Truly an unanticipated (yet gratifyingly) balm to my aching soul . . .

I can't help but think of Shakespeare's – and Fred's phantom-sweet joking voice inside my mind calling me a schoolmarm – _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ (so aptly titled). Nearing the end of the play, Puck's epilogue is so poignant –

"_If we shadows have offended,  
Think but this, and all is mended,  
That you have but slumber'd here  
While these visions did appear.  
And this weak and idle theme,  
No more yielding but a dream,  
Gentles, do not reprehend:  
if you pardon, we will mend:  
And, as I am an honest Puck,  
If we have unearned luck  
Now to 'scape the serpent's tongue,  
We will make amends ere long;  
Else the Puck a liar call;  
So, good night unto you all.  
Give me your hands, if we be friends,  
And Robin shall restore amends."__(V, i. 440-455)_

This night has been beyond my imagination in regards to the red-haired prankster, but never will I regret it. Though I don't know what will happen or if anything will ever come of it, I never wish to pretend it was a dream.

I close my eyes and simply feel. Fred breaths out as I breathe in. "_And this weak and idle theme . . ."  
_Well, it was so much more than "_but a dream."_

For a while the guilt abates and Harry stays asleep and the adrenaline slips listlessly from my body. The faint summer breeze whistles softly outside as the weak light of the moon still shines in through the curtained windows.

.

* * *

.

Author's Notes: Hope you liked this little one-shot. I'm actually proud of myself; I never thought I could write one – seriously. I always want to give every little detail to a story and find it so very hard to condense my writing. But I really like how this turned out.

This little plot bunny has jumped around my head for a while and I finally wrestled it into some kind of order. I love the thought of Fred and Hermione, so I wanted to add my own little piece to their ship. Hope I did it a little justice.

Anyhow, if you have the time or inclination, please review. I'd love to know your thoughts, comments, disagreements; all are welcome. I've been suffering major writer's block on so many levels that finally getting something out there again feels amazing.

Hope all is well with everyone. Much love!

_Posted: Wednesday, 22 May 2013_


	2. A Certain Step

Disclaimer: Everything recognizable belongs to J.K. Rowling and associates. No Copy Right Infringement is meant. Words in **bold** are taken directly from Deathly Hallows.

**A Certain Step**

"_To be fond of __dancing__ was a certain step towards falling in __love__.__" _—_Jane Austen_

.~~. .~~.

Hermione's POV – Bill and Fleur's wedding

I can still feel the pinkness high in my cheeks. _Can he be any more obvious_ . . . well, that question is obvious in and of itself.

The flush to my cheeks isn't all him, although much of it is. But I can already see his already inflated ego taking flight if he knew.

I lick my parched lips and sit as I wait for the wedding to begin. Being wedged next to Ron, while sitting behind Fred, feels like being between a rock and a hard place. But I ignore the pangs of guilt and longing (both shooting through me in what seems equal measure) as I Ooo with the wedding procession starting.

As Harry takes his eyes from me and looks back at my exclamation, I will the infernal blush from my cheeks. Surely it will not due.

As I turn back around, I catch Fred's gazing eyes (by accident, I assure myself) and can't stop from biting my lips. My face heating up isn't the only part of me becoming warmed. _For surely it must be the heat of summer_.

He quickly winks as he takes his attention from me. I feel a little bereft, but smother the feeling. Everything just feels terribly inappropriate.

Tears sting my eyes, but I hope people will think it has everything owing to the wedding and not my mounting guilt and longing.

"You look quite enchanting, Granger." Fred had whispered to me as he, Ron, George and myself made our way to the seats. His twin had been too busy checking out the abundant selection of Veela cousin and Ron had been grumbling irritatingly under his breath about Vicky and fake wedding invitations to notice our brief interlude.

"Fred," I hissed, "not now." But my cheeks had given away my delighted pleasure in his caring compliment.

"There's only now, love, and you are smashing." I went to retort but we had already reached our seats.

"Save me a spin for later, beautiful, can't have your two shadows taking up all your time." And he rushed passed me before sitting next to his exact match.

I felt flustered while sitting down. It hadn't been like the surprise words falling from Ron's mouth or the gruff notice of Viktor's. My once nightly comforter's praise had been genuine, unrushed and the balm to my frazzled nerves.

After having heard Aunt Muriel's opinion of me (_**Skinny ankles**_ . . . _**Bad Posture**_), Fred's opinion made me sit a little taller.

The popping of the balloons pull me from my mind and back to the present. I can't help but be amazed at the magic Fred and George master. The balloons are a brilliantly lovely touch. Birds of paradise fly from their enchanted container as the golden bells peal softly in the setting haze of the sun.

I can't help but be amazed.

. . .

My feet are all but ready to fall off. I silently wince again as Ron tries not to step on my toes, but still manages to catch my littlest one.

"Sorry," he hastily apologizes, but I smile him off. I know it isn't on purpose.

_Yeah, but you aren't the one being bloody trampled on_, I swear I hear my toes hiss.

As the somewhat fast song ends and a slower one begins, I sigh a little. _As least, if I now get stepped on, it won't be to a fast-pace song_.

The sun has already set and the soft glow of the lanterns only adds to the beautiful mystic of the summer evening. Fat moths fly slowly through the blowing tent, attracted by the faint glow of the candles. The enchantment of the warm, tranquil night is terribly lulling to my beating heart.

And when I think I can close my eyes and sway happily to this song, I'm proven wrong.

"Ronnikins," I hear spoke directly behind me. We both stop swaying awkwardly to the music as Fred's voice drizzles over my already warmed skin. I know he is playing with me.

Ron's ears instantly turn red at the name, but I stifle my laugh, making sure to keep my lips stiff. Fred is awfully incorrigible.

"What," my dance partner grumbles, embarrassed; not that I blame him. I guess I am lucky to be an only child.

"Mum wants you to take Auntie Muriel to the toilet." This time, I can't help the mirthful sputter that escapes my lips. The request is just ever so random.

Ron's ears bypass pink and shoot straight to scarlet.

"Wh – but . . . You're lying!"

This time I can't help but turn around and face Fred, but also to try and hide my mirth from my best friend.

The red-haired genius stops buffering his nails on his elegant Dress Robes and studies his younger brother. They are so different it is difficult to believe they are brothers (sans the flaming red hair).

"Ronnikins, have I ever misled my innocent lil' brother before? Am I capable of such actions?" It is scary how well Fred can pull of innocent on his not-so-innocent face.

"Yes!" both Ron and I exclaim.

Fred's smile turns downright roguish, and Ron isn't the only one blushing now. The air – all of a sudden – seems too warm and still.

"Well, little brother, now isn't one of those times."

"But why can't you or someone else take her?" my puce-colored friend all but whines, not that I blame him. Aunt Muriel is a horror unto her own. "I'm busy." I feel his eyes dart quickly to me and back again.

"Well, let's count the ways, shall we . . . Mum is too busy making sure everything is still going swimmingly. Dad is trying to calm everything in her wake. Bill is busy for obvious reasons, and George is too busy slobbering over the Veela cousins." I feel a little bit of irrational jealousy when I think about them, but try to push it away. I know I look nice tonight – and Fred even thinks so. Though, I also saw him checking himself out some Veela bird.

"Ginny is dancing with some bloke, most likely trying to make Harry jealous. Charlie is too inebriated to walk straight and well, we all know how much Auntie Muriel loves my company." Fred looks to me before roguishly winking. "Dung bomb . . . Christmas . . . such pleasant memories," he explains as I giggle. Ron gives me a funny look, but I can't mind him right now.

"But why can't the old girl go on her own," Ron continues to whine. Again, not that I blame him.

"Because, Ronnie," his brother breaths out agitatedly. "Auntie Muriel is a hundred and seven, has had one too many glasses of champagne and needs help pulling down her support hoes." Poor Ron's face scrunches up with disgust at the thought.

Quickly I stifle a gag myself.

"But – but," my friend sputters.

"Do I need to get Mum? Oh, she'll be only too pleased that she's to be pulled away from whatever else is taking away her already short temper."

A little fear creeps onto Ron's face at the mention of his mother. It is interesting how all her boys fear her (well, Bill not so much. I'm sure Fleur is pleased about that).

"Fine!" my dance partner mutters as he stomps away in search of his coarse aunt.

"And Ron, if she gets too fresh with you . . . be sure to beat her with that awful pink-feathered hat."

Ron quickly looks around, spots his harassed mother (to be sure she isn't watching of course), and shoots his rascal-of-a-brother with a rude hand gesture before stalking off muttering obscenities under his breath.

I try and stifle my giggles, but have a hard time. I feel bad for Ron, but Fred is entirely too funny.

"That was terribly mean of you, Fred," I try my best McGonagall impersonation, but fail. I cannot contain my mirth. "You could have taken her yourself."

"But I couldn't abandon you, love. Viktor has been eyeing you too much. Not that one could fault him, you do look quite lovely."  
I valiantly try to fight the blush but hopelessly give up. I feel too warm and feminine in his hazel gaze.

"And besides, once Ronnikins get within ten feet of Auntie Muriel he'll suddenly remember to get you both some drinks . . . eventually. Confundus Charm, love. Learned from the best." His wink tells me all I need to know.

"But how did . . . Surely Harry . . . Oh, you're incorrigible."

"I'll take that as a compliment, and I'll be taking that dance from you, too." My teeth gently nibble into my lower lip as I study this perplexing Weasley. Never do I think a time will come when I will ever understand him.

With shaking fingers, I reach out and grasp his proffered hand. I can't help but notice how much bigger his are than mine. The feeling of femininity washes over me again, swirling butterflies in my belly.

The music melodiously enters my ears as the beauty of the moment sizzles in my veins.

My body trembles as I'm pulled closer to Fred's lean frame. We delicately start to sway. Shuttering breaths become lodged in my throat as I try to make some sense out of the situation. I can feel confused tears tickling the corners of my eyes, but refuse them to fall. The moment is too exquisite to ruin with waterworks.

As I try to control my battling emotions, the courage to look into my dance partner's eyes surges into my heart. My eyelids flutter as I take in his intense stare. The hazel looks like the softest of jewel tones (in the flickering lights of the lanterns) as they take in every inch of my face. Never have I been studied so intently. The thudding of my heart against my ribs is all but lethal; it's as if my heart would like nothing better than to take flight from between my ribs.

I know he must feel the thumping against his own chest.

Without pretense, hands guide my own up to his shoulders as his weave together gently on to the small of my back. I sigh helplessly as I allow my fingers to curl around his longish locks caressing his neck.

We swirl together, allowing the music to be our guide, the cut grass to be our pedestal and the soft summer breeze our comforter. The moment is exquisitely boundless.

"Are you feeling better these days, love?" I hear whispered tenderly in my ear. I bite into my bottom lip and will the tears not to fall. His concern is endearing.

I can only nod as I guiltily cuddle closer to his strong body, my arms tightening around his neck.

A soft whimper leaves my lips as his sweet breath plays with the fallen curls beside my ear.

"Do you regret–"

"No," I instantly answer, already knowing his question.

Though I have been feeling guilty and crying more these days from said guilt, I could never regret our short interlude together. Fred had given me something essential – something I hadn't even realized I required.

I stand on the tips of my toes as I reach his neck, still too short to reach his ear. "I can't ever imagine such regret, Fred. That night left me breathless."

Surreptitiously, I pretend to cover my mouth to stifle a cough, but really place my lips on his skin where his Dress Robes don't cover. I allow them to linger a few infinite moments before pulling back.

His unblemished skin is raised in Goosebumps, and I feel proud for some reason. My gaze seeks his out, wanting him to see the truth burning in my eyes.

As we continue to sway, our eyes hardly break from each other. If impossible, I'd think I am floating. Something deep bubbles happily in me, spilling out in my quiet smiles and adoring eyes.

I can only hope he can feel my adoration for him, my thankfulness for everything.

Without warning, I feel myself spinning away from him, under his arm and back into his embrace. My head falls back as I laugh at the unsteadiness in my belly from the unexpected twirl. A warm summer breezes caresses my upturn face as I giggle from Fred's antics.

"And that, Hermione, is how one twirls properly. Be sure to take notes, love." I throw my head back again, unable to contain my delight. It all overflows from within me.

As the enjoyable, slow melody starts to wind down, I'm pulled back into the shelter of my companion's arms.

I can't help but wonder at this development and the exquisitely intimate one prior to this. What has changed . . . I cannot fathom a guess, but my heart feels it so very achingly. I feel so overcome.

"Thank you, Hermione. For the dance . . . the comfort . . . the threats to my mother." A tremor-come-giggle escapes. This ache inside is starting to hurt. The moment was too short and I don't want it to end. My body begs to stay close to his, my heart near his erratically beating one.

"F-Fred," I can't help but stammer, trying to stop the tears from leaking from my eyes, and the sadness from breaking out of my chest.

"Shh, no sadness, love. Weddings are happy occasions, yeah." I compress the pain inside me, determined to give him nothing but happiness and warm memories of me.

He pulls my face from his chest, tilting my reluctant chin up with his finger. "Now let me see that Hufflepuff smile." He gives me an endearingly wobbly grin.

"I'll Hufflepuff you," I mumble in mock-anger, biting my lip while trying to stifle my smile. "I'm all Gryffindor, baby," I can't help but salaciously murmur into his neck. "My red and gold knickers tell the tale well."

Momentarily his arms tighten around me, pulling me so wonderfully into his solid chest. "So wicked, Granger," I hear him groan. Comfortable laughter erupts from my parted, dry lips as I can't help but feel like the cat that got the canary.

A surprised, happy gasp leaves my lips as the song crescendos for the last time. My girly dress flutters around my legs as my swanky partner spins me out once more and drops me into a low dip. I can feel my loose curls touching the freshly-cut grass.

I close my eyes and let the magnificent happiness of the moment wash over me. _Exquisite bliss_.

My body is tugged upward as the song ends and a light applause breaks over the white, romantic marquee.

While taking advantage of everyone's distraction, I feel the lightest pressure of his lips on mine, and as if I imagined the caress, it instantly leaves me again. I can only wonder how pinks my cheek must be and how they glow in the weak light of the flickering lanterns.

"Thanks for the dance, Hermione," Fred whispers in my ear before letting me go. I suddenly feel cold out of his embrace, but the smile is stretched over my still tingling lips. "No one can compare to you tonight. So very pretty."

I can only look at him from beneath my lashes. He has overwhelmed me completely. This new shyness is quite daunting, but I don't let it stop me. My lips stretch into the widest smile I can render for him. My heart is overflowing.

"Thanks for the dance, Fred. Perhaps we could take another spin together, sometime, yeah?" I know it won't happen at Bill and Fleur's wedding, but perhaps some time at another happy event.

"As if your big, bleeding Hufflepuff heart could ever withstand me, darling." Rogue laughter bubbles thankfully from my chest, pushing some of the mounting pressure away.

I playfully swat at his arm. "You're such an incurable prat, Fred."

"And never forget that, Granger. I'm Fred: resident prankster and all around loveable, more handsome of the two Weasley twins."

The crowd starts to part around us as the band takes a ten minute break. I know our time is up.

"I won't forget," I tell him most seriously. "I won't, Fred." I give him my most brave, winning smile. "Till next time."

"Till next time," he mimics.

And as I go to turn around, and sit at the table I've spotted Harry at, Fred's words pull my attention back, "Just . . . just be careful, Hermione: you, Ron and Harry. Yeah?"

I go to question him, but he gives me that wobbly smile again which simply melts my heart (not to mention my knees, but I won't admit that even under torture).

"You, too, Fred. Both you and George. _**Keep each other safe: Keep faith**_."

With one more wobbly, soft smile and with the tenderest of winks, Fred turns around and follows his brother into the waning darkness.

"Bye, Fred," I mumble to myself, for no apparent reason. I will the blush from my cheeks and the sadness from my heart as I make my way off the dance floor.

.

* * *

.

Author's Notes: Hello, again, darlings. To be honest, I had no intention of adding anything else to this story, but some muse struck me. So here is another one-shot placed in the realm of Deathly Hallows.

Hope you liked it. I usually don't write fluff too well, but I think this one may have turned out alright.

Just wanted to thank everyone who read, alerted, and reviewed last chapter. The comments were wonderful and so very lovely. Please, if you have the inclination, leave me a little review. I adore feedback – both good and bad.

Hope all is well. Much love!

_Posted: Wednesday, 26 June 2013 _


End file.
